


I'll Melt with You

by Gammarus



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Praise Kink, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gammarus/pseuds/Gammarus
Summary: Simon's having an awful day. Baz helps him feel better. A lot better.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	I'll Melt with You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peachpit_gabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpit_gabe/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for the wonderful [peachpit_gabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpit_gabe) with art by the equally wonderful [Kirito_Potter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirito_Potter) and a podfic by the fantastic [xivz](rel=). We hope you like it!
> 
> I want to extend approximately a zillion thanks to Kiri and xivz for their help! Kiri beta'd as well as doing the art.

_ I'll stop the world and melt with you _

_ You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time _

_ There's nothing you and I won't do _

_ I'll stop the world and melt with you _

  


_ “I Melt With You,” Modern English _

  


**Baz**

I'm sitting at the dining table studying when Simon bangs into the flat. He slams the door hard and stalks over to the counter, throwing down his rucksack and crashing his hand down onto the bell to let his wings out. They snap out to the sides like banners.

I push my books aside. Listening to my boyfriend is more important right now. "What's wrong, love?"

"Nothing!" He stalks over to the wall and gives it a punch that makes me wince. "Everything!" He just stands there, arms folded on the wall and head buried in his arms. I walk over to him and plant my hand between his wings.

"Tell me?" I ask gently, beginning to press and knead a bit.

He lets out a beautiful and heartfelt groan. "I fucking burned a tray of scones. And if it was Felicia on management and register it would have been fine, but it was Terrence and he was all over me about responsibility and costs and called me an idiot and I know it's true but he doesn't have to say it."

"It's not true, and he shouldn't say it. It's not fair or right, and you're turning into a brilliant baker."

"Did you miss the part where I burned the damn things? And these fucking  _ wings! _ They get so damned tight and cramped being locked into my back all day. I should have made them go away while I still could. Typical stupidity, now I'm stuck with them." 

"I like your wings. They're strong, and beautiful, and unique. Like you."

He makes a little sound that's half laugh, half whimper. I can tell he finds the idea of my liking them ridiculous, but it's entirely true. 

"Can I help you with those cramped muscles?" I keep rubbing, and I dare a kiss where his neck meets his shoulder.

"Yeah. Okay." He sounds grudging, but he's starting to stretch into my touch.

**Simon**

I still feel like a fucking idiot about those scones but I have to admit that what Baz is doing feels pretty nice. He kisses my neck a few more times, then takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom and over to the bed. I'm about to sit down on it, but he says, "Wait a minute."

I'm curious what this is about. He gets an old quilted spread off the top shelf of the wardrobe and spreads it over the nice duvet. We do that sometimes to keep sex from messing things up, but I didn't think that was what he had in mind. "Hey, Baz, I don’t..."

"I know, love. I think you'll like this, though. Would you take off your shirt and lie down on your front? With your head at the foot of the bed."

"O...kay." I do as he directs, and let my wings flop out to the sides. I hear him slicking his hands up and I look up, ready to stop him, because with me jumping out of my skin like this the last thing I need is him going after my arse or something. (Though I suppose if it was my arse he'd have asked me to take off more than my shirt.) There's a big bottle of something clear on the nightstand. It's not our usual lube bottle. Then he touches between my wings and presses and rubs and oh God it feels so good. It's oil on his hands -- almond oil by the smell -- and it feels so slick and smooth and amazing. I rest my cheek down on the coverlet and sigh deeply from down in the bottom of my belly, this loud noise that lets out so much of my day. Not all of it. Nothing like all of it. But it's a start.

He gets more oil onto his hands and comes around to the foot of the bed. He kneels down and puts his mouth up to my ear and says "I love your wings. So much." And he starts to run his oiled hands along the bones at the top of my left wing, smooth strokes with just the right pressure, firm but not painful, and I wiggle deeper into the bed. It feels so good. My wings get so tight and hidden and useless and unused when I'm at work all day. It's best of all when we go to Hampshire and I can stretch them and fly, but this is a close second, making them feel valued and alive.

He takes a firm yet gentle hold of the first bone, right by the joint with the second bone, and pulls it smoothly out to the side, making a glorious stretch between my shoulder blades. Then he repeats the process for each bone out to the tip, stroking each one down with oil and then pulling it to the side for the stretch. I arch my back and I think I might be purring.

The whole time he does this, he's talking to me. "They're so strong, like you. So special, like you. They mean you're not like anybody else. Mine. My Simon." He comes back to center and starts on my right wing, stroking and stretching. "I know it's hard for you to keep them locked up all day. We should take you out to Hampshire more often." Just what I had been thinking, and I make a kind of sleepy noise of agreement. "But I kind of like that not everybody sees them. That it's a special intimacy for me." He's out to the second joint now. "Only I touch you like this. I'm so glad that you let me do this. You're so good to me. So good for me." I swear, I'm rubbing my face on the cover like a cat, drinking in the praise like cream, like butter, like everything good.

He comes and sits astride my arse, and he's got me so relaxed that I'm not worried that he's going to try to take it to the sexy place. I can tell that he's just doing this for me to feel good, to take away my stress. And it feels like love, and he's treating my wings so tenderly that I can really believe for the moment that, however inconvenient they are, he does love them.

That he loves me.

He starts oiling the membranes. They need it, probably more often than we bother. Showering dries them out, and the skin gets flaky. Being jammed up inside a containment spell leaves them itchy, too. In the winter they can even crack a bit from the dry indoor air. But now they're getting all this attention — I'm getting all this attention — and he's still praising them as he goes. "They're so soft and so supple and so strong. I love when I see the light through them. I love when I get to see you fly."

And I'm just heaving these sighs and these groans and these purrs and it all just feels perfect.

Baz climbs off, and I hear him go to the wardrobe again. He comes back to the foot of the bed and kneels again. He's holding an oblong box that's maybe a half a metre long. He says "I've been saving these for a special occasion, for a chance to do something nice for you. Can I use them?"

He opens the lid and holds the box right by the foot of my bed. I lift my head up to see. It's got six little white porcelain vessels filled almost to the top with something solid, each one a different colour of the rainbow, beautiful and bright. They look kind of like votive candles, but there aren't any wicks and each one has a little point on it like a pitcher.

"They're pretty, but I have no idea what you want to do with them."

"Remember the candle last month?"

I sure do. We had a romantic date night at home, dinner by candlelight. After we'd cleaned up and I put the last of the leftovers into the fridge, I looked over at the table and saw Baz doing something with one of the candles. He was pouring the melted wax over the back of his hand and up onto his wrist, turning his hand this way and that to make little piles and designs with the wax. 

"Shit, Baz, what are you doing? Doesn't that hurt?"

"Not if you do it right. It's lovely and warm and meditative. Can I show you?"

I was very dubious, but I was also mellow from the meal and the time just being together, not pursuing any goals, so I held out my own hand. He dripped wax onto it, starting from pretty high up. It was just slightly warm. He brought the candle a bit closer, trailing the wax over my wrist, and it was warmer. "That feels nice," I said, surprised. "But you're making me nervous. You  _ are _ flammable, you know." 

I guess he was feeling mellow too, because instead of arguing with me about how a Pitch is a born fireworker and can surely be trusted with a candle, he just put it back in its holder. He peeled the wax off both of us — it pulled unpleasantly at some of the hairs but everything was nice except for that. Anyway, then we headed off to bed and got on with some other things, but I definitely remember how good the warm wax felt.

So here he is, holding this box of little pitchers of coloured stuff. I feel a bit stupid, because I don't see what he's getting at. "These aren't candles."

"No. It's wax without flame — I know the flame bothered you. I got them off of Etsy. A Normal who wanted to use them would put them in a hot water bath, but I can just warm them in my hands."

"That sounds nice. But it hurt getting the candle wax off, and there's so much more of this — are you going to use it all?" He's making me kind of nervous.

"The oil will make it easy to get off, love. Can you trust me for this?"

And I'm feeling so safe and loved, and I know Baz will never hurt me, so I say yes.

**Baz**

I've been eager to use these on Simon, but I was waiting for the right time. And tonight, when he needs some physical comfort  _ and _ to be shown and told how loved and worthy he is, seems perfect. He had gotten all warm and fuzzy and soft when I was stroking his wings and praising him. Our conversation has broken the mood a bit, but I know I can get him back there. 

I put the box down and spend a moment running my fingers through his beautiful bronze curls. My hands are still a bit oily. I would hate having them in my own hair, but I know that he won't mind it and that the gentle touch will start to ground him again. My next step will take a few minutes, so I move closer, pushing my thigh against the crown of his head, keeping him in the moment with me. 

That done, I pick up my first pot of wax, the purple one. I hold it between my hands, bringing heat into my palms and then pushing the heat into the little pitcher. This is sort of postgraduate fireworking — Fiona's been teaching me. Control over fire can be elevated into an awareness of heat and an ability to move it where you want.

When I have the wax molten, I pour a few drops onto my left wrist from a height of about six inches. It's important to know the exact feel of the wax so I don't hurt Simon's sensitive wings. It's comfortable, quite warm but not burning, so I pour a long stripe along the ridge of his left wing. I start where it emerges from his back and move steadily along to the first joint, ending with a little circular pool on the knob, and letting a little of it overflow to make drizzles off the sides. Some gets on the old coverlet. We may need to discard it after this, but it will be worth it. I repeat the pour on his other wing, then set the pitcher down on the floor. 

I squat down near Simon's head and put my cheek to his. He's warm and flushed. "How are you doing, love?"

"Mmnh..."

It's entirely inarticulate, but that's exactly what I was aiming at, and that makes it all the answer I need. "That's right. You're doing so good, love. Letting me play with your beautiful wings." 

It's so important for Simon to hear these things. Back when he was a kid, he was expected to save the world and everybody just assumed that he could and he would, but nobody stopped to tell him how much he was worth just in himself. I didn't dare, not then, and even his best friend had a very Penny Knows Best attitude that sometimes dismissed him and his contributions. So now I try to tell him every chance I get, and on a night like this it just makes him melt and go dreamy.

I pick up the purple wax again and do a couple of more stripes on each side, overlapping them partially so that the stripe gets both wider and thicker. I pour from higher up as I move down onto the leathery membrane; it's even more tender than the rib. The purple is beautiful against the red of his wings, making their crimson more vivid than ever. The veins in his wings look like tendrils of the dark wax.

I set the purple back into the box and pick up the red, stroking his cheek with my other hand while I do so. "Good boy," I say, turning my voice into another caress. "So beautiful, so relaxed, so patient for me." He makes a happy little noise and snuggles down even further into the bed. I lean my face up against his while I melt the red, then I pour red wax into the mostly-empty purple pitcher. I give it a gentle twist and pour a stripe of the swirled red and purple on each side. Next, I get the pure red and pour more stripes. 

I repeat the process through all the colors of a vivid sunset until I have a beautiful crust of wax on each of his wings, purple swirling into red, to orange, to yellow. As I work, I let my eyes linger on every beautiful inch of my lover and his extraordinary wings. I tell him over and over how beautiful he is, how special, how proud I am of him, what a great job he's doing. Whenever I go to get a new container of wax I take a look at his face and treasure the soft contentment I see there. I kiss his brow, stroke his hair, touch his back and shoulders as I work.

Finally I've achieved my goal — my twin goals: a happy, relaxed Simon and two beautiful piles of wax.

**Simon**

I felt so good with Baz massaging my wings that I was already starting to bliss out when he started with the wax. And that was just wonderful, warm and gentle, and his voice was also warm and gentle, and soon it was almost like I was flying, moving freely and without cares through this vast space where everything was warm and soft and safe. 

I have no idea how long I've been here when I feel something new. Baz is sitting on my arse again and I don't mind in the least and I'm not at all worried by it. I feel the weight of the wax pushing my wings down towards the mattress — it feels like there's a lot of it. And then he's sliding his fingers up under the wax on my left wing, pushing the membrane gently down to let some air in there. He was right — with my wing oiled, it separates painlessly from the wax. 

I lie there, breathing quietly and gradually coming back to myself, as he gets every inch of the membrane pulled away from the wax. Then he leans forward and I feel a funny twist along the ridge and he lifts the entire mass of wax up and off me. I feel him lean to the side -- putting the wax down, I guess. I continue to blink and come back into my body and into awareness as he repeats the process on the other side.

Then he climbs off me and comes around to the foot of the bed, squatting down in front of me. In each hand he's holding a big chunk of multicolored wax, purple morphing and swirling into red, orange, and yellow. They're broad at one end and narrower at the other — like wings.

"See?" he says. "They're beautiful and unique and very special. Just like you."


End file.
